Ambrose Philips

He the robe of justice wore, Sully'd not, as heretofore, When the magistrate was sought With yearly gifts. Of what avail Are guilty hoards? for life is frail; And we are judg'd where favour is not bought.

The stag in limpid currents with surprise Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise.

There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

The flowers anew returning seasons bring! But beauty faded has no second spring.

Studious of ease and fond of humble things.